


One Day, We'll Make Them Proud

by Vaecordia



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Dystopia, F/M, Sabotage, Violence, torture (kind of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 03:13:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9104194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaecordia/pseuds/Vaecordia
Summary: Oppressed free spirits doomed to a life worse than death, that's what the two and their family are - but they know it, and they revel in it. And it's their time to keep the circle going, to do their bit at fighting for the freedom they want to have. Dystopian.





	

_"What's today's calamity?"_

The television emitting a steady, unnerving hum as the black, grey and white dots flashed unevenly on the screen. It was always like this, he'd have to wait only for a few more seconds. The man sat down, a woman next to him, his electric blue eyes trained on the screen, unblinking. It was always the same thing, the same routine, the same life. Everyone had the same life, if they were where they belonged.

Of course, you had _those_ that didn't belong anywhere.

3.

2.

1.

The screen lit up, colours whirling into view as a sitting man on the screen began to speak.

_"Today, there have been no major events."_

_[We don't trust you.]_

There was a video of a robbery, where two armed men were quickly apprehended, caught and shot outside the shop.

_[This is what will happen to you, if you're not where we want you to be.]_

The man watching the news snorted. It was always the same thing - oh, not every day did they have a robbery, no, of course not. However, it was always the same message coming through, it was always the same type of show they put on. They threatened, they scared, they showed people what they wanted them to do, what they didn't want them to do. And it was always NCs who paid - or those who would soon be some, if the news were real and not fake.

NCs. It was as if they didn't even deserve the full name of their social class they had been given. A mere abbreviation is what they had become. Non-Citizens. Too long, too wordy, they didn't deserve it. They weren't human. They weren't living.

Of course they lived, but they did not live a _life._

Whenever news were showed, it was usually a video of an NC being shot, tortured or otherwise 'rightfully punished'. That NC had probably, before being one, been a regular man or woman, like anyone else. A mistake, a toe across the line - no life, no family, no thoughts of their own, no being. They were controlled by some sorts of glasses, that looked like regular, iron-rimmed glasses. They just had this soft, electric glow, sometimes, to them. These NCs would be told to get outside, cause this fake trouble, and be punished for what they were told to do. Sometimes on the news, however, you could see the reality flashing between the false clips. Between the lies were the scary truths. Sometimes, there had been a riot - one that always failed. There would be some sort of resistance. Vandalism, disfiguration, insult, passing comment that went against the law. The reality of life could be seen in the criminal's eyes. And then you saw what really happened. Though everyone knew that most the news were lies, and the State knew that they knew, they wanted to hide the fact that the _actual_ news were so. It would always be shown to be another NC, but the feelings were clear in their eyes. And though the news said the 'NC' would be tried, or jailed, or shot, the clips ended where the Guard took them to a car.

And then they would be taken to the _Stradanies*._ Their official name was the "Centres for Treatment and Rehabilitation of the Socially Defective". CTRSD. Over the years, it had evolved, amongst people, to a word, one whose true meaning had somehow floated across the centuries from a land long forgotten to today, and had seemed so fitting and true to the reality that it was adopted as the secret name used for the Centres.

_"A minor riot was quickly put down by police, no damage was caused."_

_[We're stronger than you, so don't try. You will lose.]_

It was easy to say that he felt safe, lie through gritted teeth, but he was one of those who knew they would become, one day, a nameless NC. A number on a list. A controlled, brainwashed, faceless, barren, lifeless _thing._ He knew that one day, he would lose the name he had come to live by, the only freedom he had, the only bit of identity separating him from an NC.

Alfred F. Jones would, one day, cease to exist, replaced by "#98432" or something similar.

Because this Alfred F. Jones also knew that the NCs were those who had had more freedom, more control in their life than any of the regular Citizens had ever had. They had stood against the rules. They had fought what was thought to be normal. They had seen through the lies and the fear and the terror that the government spread and seen the fear and terror that the government felt, that tough face of a disembodied strength that controlled their lives in a way unimaginable to them, only to cover its own cowering from the power of people. They had stripped people of their humanity to make them less dangerous. Because Alfred knew that as long as _people_ existed, then as long people would remain free-minded and dangerous. A human mind was worth a thousand weapons - it could speak horrors unknown, it could warp at will, it could go to infinite lengths, it was selfish, powerful, strong, violent, strong-willed, and it was _dangerous._ You could wipe out a thousand people by using nuclear weapons and gases and heavy artillery, but one human could turn the mind of a million with some carefully selected words.

And those who had become the NCs had been the dangerous ones.

Alfred was not one to give up. His father hadn't. Same with most of his ancestors. His mother, his sister. They had all been carefully educated by their parents on how to act, what to do.

_"Tomorrow should be a rainy day, clouds are covering most of the sky."_

_[You will remain on this planet. You won't move anywhere.]_

Alfred's mother had always told him the rules. His father had always told him how to break them. His mother had told him what to do. His father had taught him how to do it. His sister had shown to him how.

_Find a partner - you'll know who, not from love but from necessity, you'll see, you'll know. Have children. Teach them. When they are old enough, when they have someone old enough to take care of them, then you move - you take action._

He had found her. Alice Kirkland. A beautiful, high-spirited woman, whose ideals fit Alfred's perfectly. They had been raised the same. They had both known from the moment they met, the glint in the eye, that they would share their destiny. It was only later that they had fallen in love, only when their first son was born. Their daughter was just as pretty as Alice was. And now the youngest son was born, and Alfred knew they would soon do what they had both wanted to do all of their lives. Their first son had been taught thoroughly, and he knew exactly what would happen, and he knew he would do the same. And he would pass it on to his younger siblings. And they had managed that even though they were always watched. The techniques were undercover and perfect.

Alfred glanced to Alice, who was smiling gently, her green eyes perfect. He knew that while now their vision was perfect, they would both be wearing glasses soon enough. Her wild mind was kept deep under that perfect facade. They were the picture-perfect married couple with the ideal family. But their history was tainted with one nameless face after another. The government had never gone so far as to wipe out the families of NCs, hoping that by leaving them alive this family would be so broken that they would not survive. The government never seemed to be able to connect the many number of Jones who had suddenly become nameless. Maybe that was the flaw in the system. By erasing the names, they assured that they couldn't find any connections.

Tomorrow would be a new day, and tomorrow would be their last day.

* * *

"Bye, Dad! I love you!" Alfred grinned broadly at his sons and daughter, two of whom had a knowing look in their eyes. Their family was very affectionate. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except their love and goodbyes were genuine.

"Dada! Dada!"

"Hey, love you too, peeps," he smiled and patted their heads, and for good measure, he kissed them and hugged them. He stood and smiled to his wife.

"I'll see you tonight, sweetie," she whispered gently. He nodded and kissed her.

* * *

"Mummy has to go to the city, you all behave, won't you?"

"Yes, mum," the girl and the boy said, the youngest just smiling innocently.

"I love you all," she said.

* * *

They had to have set a new record. About two hundred killed, another hundred injured, and the group of ten had only just been wrestled to the ground, guns pointing at their heads, arms behind their backs. Alfred twisted his face into a soft smile towards Alice, who was laying next to him on the blood-stained ground, her green eyes looking at him, filled with saddened joy, the putrid smell of death already settling in around them. And they had hit the target, the government offices. One of the many buildings. Her eyes were gleaming, and so were his, their bloodied clothes and dirt-ridden hair proof of their achievement. Now, any level of resistance was useless - none of them would be killed, no matter what they did. But their children could be proud, and hopefully would make them proud when their time came.

* * *

So the Stradanies looked like this from the inside. Like experiment laboratories. They were, weren't they?

Alfred was not alone in the room, strapped to a chair. He looked up, the bright, sterile lights emitting a constant white light into the bright, sterile, white room. He saw the complicated machines that whirred along the walls, the clean, metallic instruments placed on trays, the multitude of bottles and jars that contained liquids and mixtures of different contents.

He saw the people around him, the doctors with the cruel look in their eyes, the white-coats wearing glasses in front of their bland eyes, who moved so quick and unquestioningly. Alfred smiled, and thought of his wife and his children.

"Convict #98432: Alfred Fitzgerald Jones, aged 35, crime: slaughter of over three hundred Citizens." So the other hundred had also died. "Sentence: complete restraint under government control." So that's what they called it.

The needle was inserted, and he soon fell into unconsciousness.

* * *

#98432 was standing in a sterile white room, his bland blue eyes unfocused behind glinting glasses. A pure white coat hung on his lean frame, a frame that stood perfectly upright in an impeccable stance, his hands holding a file with numbers and letters and words on it. He didn't even glance at the paper. A bloodied woman woth hair that probably should be blonde was brought in. He looked at her with no sign of recognition, and she smiled sadly upon seeing him.

"Convict #98433: Alice Jones, aged 34, crime: slaughter of over three hundred Citizens. Sentence: complete restraint under government control."

The woman's green eyes were trained on the blue-eyed man as he took out the needle. The doctor next to him looked on, his eyes trained on the man as he nodded his consent. As soon as the doctor nodded, the blinded man continued moving. The doctor's face twisted into a sickeningly joyful smile.

_"I love you, Alfred,"_ she mouthed to him.

He looked at her blankly, unstopping in his actions. He inserted the needle. The woman's eyelids fluttered shut.

* * *

"Look, that's Mum, and there's Dad. They're on the TV, they're famous. Though they're not coming back," the boy whispered to his little sister and little brother.

_And one day, we'll be famous like them._

**Author's Note:**

> *This word is derived from the Russian word "страдание" - stradaniye, in Roman letters. It means suffering, pain, misery, according to Google Translate. I just felt like English didn't have quite the word I was looking for, because I am a literary person and English words just didn't have the right sound. To me, (and that's just me, maybe) that sound has that certain strain, tension going on in it with a certain unwillingness. I'm lucky I stumbled across that word.


End file.
